


Armistice

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Episode: s06e01 A Time to Stand, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Claustrophobia, Sharing a Bed, i am so proud of myself, i managed to write pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 12:58:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16765618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: Mere weeks ago, such a thing would have been unthinkably intimate. Humans and Cardassians, despite the frequently differing definitions, have similarly strict lines between which interactions belong within relationships of a certain nature, and he and Bashir have never crossed the line beyond their flirtation. It’s only in these last few weeks of outright war that those lines have begun to blur, allowing such intimacy.(A missing scene, set in the months before S6E1 A Time to Stand)





	Armistice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xLostLenore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xLostLenore/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Leena!!!!! ♥♥♥♥♥ I hope you'll have a lovely day today, and that the next year of your life treats you kindly, that you reach all goals you set for yourself, find your wishes fulfilled, and let me drag you properly into writing hell in retaliation for making me actually want to write this ship because your wonderful enthusiasm for them is infectious :P (Sry it's so short...)

An acrid smell of smoke and burnt plastic hangs in the Defiant’s corridors as it has done since before its departure from DS9 nearly a month ago, carrying the last of the evacuated Starfleet personnel – along with Garak himself. The grey corridors are smeared with soot from overheated circuits burning up under the strain, by now tinting almost the entire ceiling in this section an ominous black that seems to swallow all light. It ought to be pleasant for his Cardassian eyes to not be subjected to the Federations standard brightness as usual, but the soot only adds to the oppressing feel of the too narrow corridor and already, Garak can feel his breathing rate speed up just as it has started to in his quarters before he’d given in and abandoned them.

At least, the smell isn’t as biting as usual, the Defiant’s most recent battle wounds are no younger than two days and she is now en route to the nearest starbase, for some much needed repairs. Though, the tailor in him laments, war rarely leaves time or resources for cosmetic repairs; he will most likely have to continue suffering the depressing sight of the soot on the walls. Walls that are beginning to appear closer than they did just a moment ago, and with a deep breath and a thick swallow, Garak forces himself to focus on the open space in front of him, on the next step forward, and the next.

Still, he breathes an inaudible sigh of relief when the door to his destination opens with a soft hiss and lets him step into the larger space of the infirmary, feeling as though the walls have been putting pressure on his ribcage, pressure that finally lets up now and allows him to breathe freely. The infirmary is darker still than the corridor, lights dimmed in consideration of the late hour according to the ship’s main computer’s time, and holds the same, underlying scent of smoke covered by that of disinfectant and a hint of blood. Most of the biobeds are occupied, though at the moment few crewmen seem to suffer anything worse than burns from too close proximity to exploding computer consoles, or the results of engineering mishaps.

A slightly brighter light shines from the far end of the sickbay where he knows the makeshift office to be among shelves of supplies, the actual office having been sterilised and turned into a secondary OT. Perfectly silent – a skill learned through necessity when growing up in the household of Enabran Tain, one of great use throughout his life, in the Order and as well as in exile – Garak slips through the shadows of the infirmary and into the office area, where its occupant’s enhanced hearing finally does make him out after all.

“Good evening, Doctor.” Garak greets, quietly as not to wake the slumbering patients, and with a picture-perfect polite smile.

Bashir glances up from where he is bent over his PADD at the desk, giving him a weary attempt at an answering smile that fades all too soon. “Hello Garak.” His hazel eyes narrow in concern as he quickly studies the tailor’s form. “Are you alright?”

“Quite so, as much as circumstances permit these days. I merely found myself with a little time at hand and thought I’d see if a dear friend wouldn’t mind some company.”

“How nice of you to think of me then.” the doctor replies with a hint of sarcasm, likely suspecting that Garak’s motives aren’t entirely born of courtesy. His observational skills certainly have vastly improved over the time of their acquaintance. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time for literary discussions, Captain Sisko expects my casualty report at 0500 tomorrow. And I think you should spend your free time catching up on whatever sleep you can.”

The good doctor himself looks quite dishevelled, his exhausting day evidenced in the rolled up sleeves of his uniform, baring sparsely furred, caramel skin; in the unzipped collar of his undershirt that reveals a tantalising glimpse of collarbone. A very flattering look, if only it weren’t for the dark rings of sleep deprivation underneath his eyes, and the way those eyes reveal how much suffering they’ve seen, how harshly they contrast with the youth still lingering on his face. He has aged far beyond his years since that first day in the Replimat.

“My dear, I believe I am hardly the only one remiss in not taking advantage of what little peace and quiet these times offer. I dare say, genetic enhancements or not, you seem in even more urgent need of rest than I am. Besides, one should never trust a doctor who doesn’t follow their own advice.”

It can probably be ascribed to exhaustion, but Garak is glad when for once, Bashir doesn’t bristle at the mention of his augmentations. Instead, the human spares him another glance, a spark of fond amusement in his eyes, a light where there was none a moment ago, and some long hidden, foolishly sentimental part of Garak wants to bask in it.

“Such a paranoid, Cardassian sentiment. You know, there’s an old Earth saying that doctors make the worst patients.”

Garak does, in fact, know, but he nonetheless affects an insincerely surprised expression, if only to see that spark brighten a little more. “Really? What a fascinatingly self-contradictory species you are!”

“But as much as I’d love to take my own advice just this once, I’m afraid my report won’t write itself. Though you are of course welcome to keep me company.” He gestures towards the makeshift cot – little more than a sleeping pad on the ground with a thermal blanked haphazardly thrown atop, really – set up behind the temporary desk, and Garak pretends to consider his options as though this isn’t the very intention for which he sought out this location, before settling down on it.

He suspects Bashir is well aware that it’s his claustrophobia that occasionally drives him from his quarters and usually has him relocate to the infirmary under the guise of some excuse or other, but Garak is infinitely, unspokenly grateful that the doctor has never mentioned it. As much as he resents it and everything it symbolises at times, as much as he wouldn’t have expected to feel this way, Garak occasionally finds himself missing his tailor shop. Or at the very least, the reasonable amount of space it offers.

A few minutes pass in relative silence, before he breaks it after hearing Bashir not-so-subtly yawn for the second time. “Are you sure your report cannot wait another day? I can assure you, many of the crew would be most grateful, after all, as understandable as it is, reports of this nature tend to put the good Captain in a rather foul mood.”

Bashir chuckles softly but is quickly interrupted by another yawn. “Yes, and I’m sure getting the report late will help Captain Sisko’s mood.”

“Might I suggest then that you soothe his potential ire with the argument that a well-rested Chief Medical Officer is of vastly more use than a punctual casualty report? Assuming you don’t fall asleep on your desk before finishing it.”

Another few seconds pass, but eventually, predictably, Bashir sighs, and Garak, unseen by him, allows himself a hint of a triumphant smile. It isn’t hard to persuade someone who wishes to be persuaded.

“Alright, Garak, you win. Computer, lights in this section of the infirmary to 20 percent.”

The light dims, and that of the doctor’s PADD disappears as he switches the device off. There is little space between the desk and the cot, less than a step before Bashir sits down next to him, then stretches out alongside Garak, who pulls up the blanket and covers them both. They’re fully clothed, not even so much as bothering to take off their shoes – Bashir half-expecting to be woken in case of an emergency, Garak due to his reluctance to be any more vulnerable that absolutely necessary when sleeping in such a public space. And old piece of Order training he can’t bring himself to shake, even though the only people in the infirmary are the injured and the nurses. People who are friendly acquaintances or at the very least familiar in passing, and no one would so much as judge them for seeking whatever comfort they find. And this isn’t the first time they have done this, have shared this space in the brief moments of respite the war allows them, and to Garak’s quiet delight, he believes it won’t be the last.

Next to him, Bashir sighs contently and shuffles closer, close enough to touch, before settling down once again. Mere weeks ago, such a thing would have been unthinkably intimate. Humans and Cardassians, despite the frequently differing definitions, have similarly strict lines between which interactions belong within relationships of a certain nature, and he and Bashir have never crossed the line beyond their flirtation. It’s only in these last few weeks of outright war that those lines have begun to blur, allowing such intimacy. Garak wraps an arm around the other and doesn’t bother to even pretend that he isn’t enjoying his mammalian warmth.

“Good night, my dear doctor.”

Bashir hums sleepily. “What, no offer of a goodnight kiss today? I’m disappointed.” Their flirting has shifted as well, has lost some of its edge in favour of becoming a ritual, letting them find comfort in its familiarity. Not so much a challenge, always falling just short of outright daring the other to make the first true move, more an affirmation, a promise to be kept in kinder times, should the future offer them. Too much is changing in the present already.

Still, as his current company would say, the ball is in his court, and he is determined not to leave it there just yet. “After my kind offer was so cruelly rejected last time? My dear, I think you are vastly overestimating my generosity.”

Warm breath ghosts over the scales of Garak’s neck as Bashir laughs softly into the near darkness. And then he shifts again underneath Garak’s arm, and the outcast operative has to privately admit his surprise when soft, warm lips find his cheek, only just missing to the corner of his own.

“Good night, Garak.” Bashir murmurs once he has made himself comfortable again, breathing evening out as he drifts off to well-deserved sleep. A moment passes, quiet and warm and peaceful, and Garak falls asleep with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it? If so, please leave me a kudo or a comment? Comments are the light of my writer life :)


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